


I is for Ignite

by coolbyrne



Series: The Alphabet Series [9]
Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:23:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26678935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coolbyrne/pseuds/coolbyrne
Summary: When most people think of Gibbs, they think of his eyes. She thinks of his hands. Slibbs
Relationships: Jethro Gibbs/Jacqueline "Jack" Sloane
Series: The Alphabet Series [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1909126
Comments: 14
Kudos: 73





	I is for Ignite

**Author's Note:**

> A companion piece of sorts to 'H is for Habit'.

If eyes were the window to the soul, she thought hands must, in the very least, be the mirror. Eyes were easy to hide, to disguise, to guard, but hands? Everyone forgot about the hands. How many suspects let their guilt seep through their thumb fidgets and finger tappings? How many clients showed their fears through palms pressed tightly against the other? How many men showed their anger through clenched fists?

She blinked at the last question, the memories attached jolting her back to the present where she sat at her desk and watched the man at the couch, elbows on knees, hands loosely clasped between them. His hands, too, told a story. Told many stories. Ran the gamut of emotions. And though she only knew of a few of the former, she had learned many of the latter. 

The first conclusion was the easiest. He worked with his hands. Glimpses of rough patches on his finger pads and at the base where they met his palms was a gimme. Little white lines that scarred his left thumb and ran up his index finger pinpointed to fine knife work by a right-handed man who slipped every so often. The outside of his hands told a different story; his nails and cuticles were neat and trimmed, no doubt a throwback to his military days. His hands were big and broad, his fingers long and squared, perfect had he chosen to be an athlete. But he hadn't; instead, he was sitting in her office, flipping through paper, his fingers skimming over words she couldn't see from her vantage point. His finger tapped when it found something interesting, as if to bring it to his eyes' attention. Then it turned another page, but not before coming up to his lips for some moisture. She wrinkled her nose at the old school gesture he still employed in this day and age of germ fears.

His other hand hung loosely between his knees, almost as if it were poised for action, whatever that action needed to be. It was relaxed, yet she knew it had the potential for any manner of response. She had seen a relaxed hand become a strike on the table in the interrogation room, the force a direct correlation to his frustration. Later that day, she'd seen it casually direct a witness into the conference room, chivalrously holding the door, casually pulling out a chair. 

And that exact same night, she would feel those very same fingers tiptoe up her spine as she lay sprawled on her stomach, exhausted from his lascivious attention. He had padded to the bathroom, his smirk evident in the way he tugged her hair on the way. 

"Don't move."

She had laughed into the pillow and reveled in the cool extravagant sheets she had coerced him to buy, and thought then, too, of his hands. Hands that had learned her body's terrain like a cartographer, leaving no path untraveled. His touch was like flint to her tinder, sparking and conspiring to ignite trails over her skin that ached for contact, hands that knew exactly when to take hold and when to let go, fingers that could hold a fistful of her hair as he hotly breathed her name into her throat or soothe her to sleep with nothing more than feather-like skims over her scars. His hands were a reminder of gentleness and safety, and it was a reminder long overdue.

"What's wrong?" 

He had come back into the room, and seeing her troubled face, had brushed back a strand of her hair. She shook her head and sat up simultaneously, holding his hand against her cheek, drawing strength from his warmth. 

"Nothing," she replied, then, knowing he needed more, she added, "Nothing that needs to be dealt with right now."

He brushed his thumb across her bottom lip. "Okay."

She grinned into his touch and playful nipped at his palm, once, twice, and a third time. "You're very handsy." 

His eyes asked what she meant, but she only kissed him, full and hard, and sighed against his mouth when his hands curled around her waist and pulled her to his lap.

…..

-end.


End file.
